The Snowdropper

Chapter 2 - ‘Manji’

’Jeez if any of the NCOs carried on like that in the Army, they would end up head-first in one of the latrines,’ he muttered to himself. ‘But I mustn’t let him get to me.’

While gritting his teeth, and doing his best to disguise his disquiet, Harry did not want to give the other man reason to accuse him of being petulant or capricious. He, being the junior of the two, was on a hiding to nothing should he be guilty of behaviour which could be viewed as being insubordinate. No, at this stage, he was faced with no other option but to do as told and not make waves.

When he left the Army, Harry took with him the clothes and boots he was wearing; plus, his wide-brimmed slouch hat. He also managed to keep his kitbag containing a change of uniform clothing and accessories. On his induction into the police force, he scored the usual issue of police uniform and accoutrements. He’d coped by donning his ex-Army clobber during his off-duty and leisure hours but had come to realise he needed to upgrade and buy himself some mufti items of dress. He would find it hard to dispense with his khakis, having grown accustomed to being decked out in that regalia for the best part of five years.

Yes, five years of cold desert nights, and stinking hot desert days, of the Middle-East; the fluctuating mugginess and waffling sea-breezes of the Pacific; and the splendour of the Greek Islands. He laughed cynically as those thoughts passed through his mind. To hear him describe those settings, the casual observer would be excused for thinking he was characterising a recent country-hopping world holiday.

But he’d made no mention of the dust and flies; the cold, the sickness or the poor food. Nor had he touched on his time in the water-logged trenches; or being bombed, strafed by planes, and shot at or attacked with grenades by all and sundry. No, he’d made no mention of those hardships ..... even to himself.

By throwing himself whole-heartedly into his work as a police officer he’d recently began enjoying some dream-free nights. Thumbing his nose at good-intentional advice from a couple of his senior Army officers, Harry decided against consulting a medical officer in respect of his perceived PTSD. He believed his leaving the Army and taking up other employment would help him overcome his sleepless nights and flashbacks of some of his previous traumatic experiences.

He rummaged around in the small storeroom of the station and in amongst an assortment of cleaning gear and indefinable sundry items he came across a bright yellow sou’wester waterproof fisherman’s cap. The headpiece was fitted with a chin strap and a substantial neck-cover.

After brushing off the accumulated dust he strapped on the cap and left the station before Bill Weir complained of his tardiness. His clothes would get wet in the rain but at least his head and neck would be protected. He’d no sooner set out on his mission when the clouds opened up and he found himself engulfed in a steady downpour. With no protection for him to utilise he broke into a run along the unsealed footpath.

While alternatively cursing the weather, Constable Bill Weir, the town of Pemberton and his Regional Officer for sending him to the township; and at the same time watching his footing on the muddy pathway, his attention was drawn to the repeated sounding of a car horn.

Looking towards the source of the tooting he was surprised to see an old bomb of a car travelling along beside and keeping pace with him. The driver, a woman, by means of frantic hand gestures signalled for him to stop and get into the car.

Harry, with no need for any prompting, succeeded in opening the passenger door and clambered inside, before the vehicle came to a halt. The pretty woman, behind the steering wheel, broke into laughter and declared, Jeez, you look a sight in that funny-looking hat. And, I may add, people in this town wear a raincoat when out in the rain. Either that or wait till it stops. I can see by your uniform that you are a cop. You’re a stranger to me, so are you just visiting?

First of all, thanks for stopping and offering me a ride. No, I’m no visitor, I have been transferred here permanently. My name is Harry. What is yours, may I ask?

My moniker is Jenny. Jenny Rose ..... but if you ask anyone in town who Jenny Rose is, they’ll just give you a dumb look. I’m known to everyone by my nickname of ‘Manji.’ Anyway, where are you going? I’ll give you a lift.

Just to the newsagency to buy the boss a paper.

I’ve gotta go to Brownie’s store for some milk and bread, which is just up the road from O’Kelly’s. I wait and give you a ride back to the cop shop. Okay?

Beauty. Your blood’s worth bottling.

Harry bought the West Australian newspaper and felt somewhat flattered by the pretty smile he received from the young, attractive girl at the counter. He paid for the paper, from his own pocket, as Bill Weir had not handed over any money when sending him on his errand. He would wait until he delivered the paper to the senior constable before deciding on his next step. Perhaps the newspaper was treated as a station affair and both officers shared the cost. He’d wait and see.

The rain was still belting down and he thanked his lucky stars for having Manji appear on the scene when she did. On leaving the newsagency and using the protection of the shop awnings, he walked up the hill to the grocery shop Manji had entered. On peering through the front plate-glass window, he could see her as she chatted with two female shop attendants.

He decided on wiling away his time scanning through the newspaper as he waited for Manji to finish her shopping. He’d no sooner opened up the pages of the paper when his attention was drawn to yelling coming from the grocery store. And, when he glanced up, there stood Manji, calling out to him and once again signalling him with her highly theatrical hand signals.

She completed her business in the store and rushed outside to greet him, I thought you were going to take off and I wanted to get your attention; that’s why I was yelling at you.

Haha. Yes, you certainly caught my attention. And there is no need to yell to catch my eye; your looks, alone, does that.

Haha. Now I can laugh at you! But I must point out ..... flattery will get you everywhere, young man.

Harry had not overstated when he made the comment on Maji’s good looks. He estimated her age to be about thirty years; some four years older than he himself. She stood about five feet six inches in height and carried her slim athletic body confidently. He noticed she wore no engagement or wedding ring, so wonder whether a husband graced the scene.

Her next comment answered that question when she said, Jump into the old girl and I’ll give you a ride back to the cop shop, and pointed to the old Ford car, she added, This heap of shit is nearly as old as my hubby. They have nicknamed him ‘TooFar Ted’ because they reckon, he goes too far with everything he does. And this old bomb is no exception.

As Manji pulled the vehicle to a halt in front of the police station, she waved his thanks aside with, "I’ll keep in touch and when you’ve settled in, you’ll have to come down to my joint for tea one evening. Okay?

*

Bill Weir uttered no word of thanks when Harry dropped the newspaper on his desk. Taking up the paper he left the office and headed up to his quarters, My missus likes to read this rag, each morning when she has her cuppa. I’d better get it up to her before she chews my ear.

‘Well,’ mused Harry, ‘That answers my question about the daily newspaper being something to be shared around. If he doesn’t offer to pay me, there will be no more freebies.’

Chapter 3 – The Main Street

Harry sat about in the office for the next couple of hours waiting for the re-emergence of Weir. While dallying he busied himself examining the station’s records. For a centre with such a small population, he was amazed at the crime level the town experienced. And, when scanning the Modus Operandi (MO) forms he was further surprised by the poor clean-up